


To The Last Drop

by celestialskiff



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 5 + 1 times, As we have always dreamed for them, Bedwetting, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone is alive and having kinky sex, Finger Sucking, M/M, Omorashi, Outdoor Sex, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin wets his pants, Service Top Eliot, Sub Quentin, Watersports, extremely soft, in a soft way, in part 2, so so so soft maybe too soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2020-06-27 04:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19783099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: Eliot’s suddenly thinking – of Quentin clamping his hand over his crotch, whimpering. Of the tight-hot throb in Quentin’s crotch. The urgent pulse in his cock. And Eliot feels arousal blooming in his own groin. And he’s also outside of himself, observing those thoughts, and asking:What the fuck, Waugh?Or: Five times Quentin pees on Eliot, and one time him doesn’t.Or: The Queliot watersports fic no one asked for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to capeofstorm for being my long-suffering beta. 
> 
> If you want to read omorashi but no diapers skip the &1.

1.

The first time it happens isn’t really the first time it happens. But it’s the first time in these bodies that Eliot remembers. They’re alone in the ridiculous penthouse, both recovering from their traumatic injuries. They’ve been watching a lot of TV. 

In the last few weeks, they’ve shared a bed every night, and they’ve kissed and fucked, but they’re still awkward with each other some of the time. Apologising when they bump into each other. Holding out a hand not sure if the other will take it.

They’re tried, too. Exhausted right to their bones. Hardly able to process that they’re both _alive_ and _here._

The first time that isn’t the first time they’re watching another movie together. Q’s legs are hooked over Eliot’s, his face pressed against Eliot’s shoulder’s, and it’s so warm and sweet Eliot doesn’t know how to deal with it. It’s been like that a lot recently. 

The top of Quentin’s head is against his jaw. Little wisps of Q’s hair press into his lip. Q squirms against him, thighs jiggling Eliot’s crotch in a way that’s not at all unpleasant. The movie washes over Eliot: they could be watching anything, honestly. This one seems to be in the genre of car chases and women with long legs. He’s happy to let things drift: his background level of pain has dropped significantly in the last few weeks, and just not being in pain brings him a kind of peace. 

Quentin is wriggling again. It’s a little surprising, because Q, recovering from his own injuries, spends a lot of time limp and sleepy. His feet curl, like a cat making bread. Thighs tense and relax. It hits Eliot: Quentin needs to piss. He looks down at Quentin’s face, sees him worry his lower lip between his teeth. 

And Eliot’s suddenly thinking – of Quentin clamping his hand over his crotch, whimpering. Of the tight-hot throb in Quentin’s crotch. The urgent pulse in his cock. And Eliot feels arousal blooming in his own groin. And he’s also outside of himself, observing those thoughts, and asking: _What the fuck, Waugh?_

He should pause the movie. Suggest they take a break. But he tightens his arm over Quentin’s shoulders, and feels Quentin curl closer against him. He – he wants to see what happens next. And Quentin’s a big boy, right? He can handle himself. 

Eliot doesn’t know how much time passes. He feels Quentin’s subtle jiggling movements. And Eliot grows more and more interested in Quentin’s body. His cock hardening in his pants, his mouth dry. He’s not sure what game he’s playing, whether he’s trying to push himself or Quentin. Whether this is fair to either of them. 

And then Quentin gasps – a small, wet sound. There’s burst of intense heat against Eliot’s thigh, just under Quentin’s crotch. Then Quentin is rolling off his lap, speeding towards the stairs – 

Eliot touches the coin-sized wet patch on his leg. And feels his cock pulse, and thinks about the little frantic sound Quentin made. And he thinks: _fuck_. And: _what have I done?_ And follows Quentin up the stairs as fast as his unsteady joints will allow him. 

He can hear the stream of piss hitting water. Quentin hasn’t had time to close the door. Inside the bathroom, he’s bracing himself with one hand on the wall over the toilet, and he’s – sobbing. Wet, throaty sounds, and Eliot feels – so guilty. Quentin doesn’t have to be up here like this: mortified and anxious. If he’d just told Q to take a goddamn bathroom break this wouldn’t be happening. 

He acts instinctively, wanting to comfort. He stands behind Quentin, puts his arms around his shoulders. Quentin makes a little noise, and then, “Ohgodsorry.” 

The stream of piss is dying. Eliot surprises himself by realising he’s not uninterested in it, the pale yellow coming from Quentin’s soft cock. 

Quentin’s trembling. Doesn’t seem to know what to do. He doesn’t shake himself off or tuck his dick back into his pants once he’s finished. He just stands there. And Eliot wraps his arms more firmly around him, draws him back to his chest. Quentin snuffles. It’s a sound Eliot recognises from another life – the way Quentin cries when he’s exhausted and frustrated with himself, and just _done._

“Let me help,” Eliot says, and reaches down to tuck Quentin’s cock away. The crotch of Quentin’s jeans is damp, he realises. The boxers are soaked and Eliot – Eliot’s mouth goes wet then dry. Fuck. 

“We need to get you clean pants.” Eliot makes his voice as soft as possible. 

“’M sorry. Y – you can. You can just leave. I – ohgod did I get you wet too?” 

“Hey. Baby.” Eliot turns him around. “It’s OK.” He’s not grossed out, even by the clammy feeling of Quentin’s jeans against his hand. 

Quentin rubs his face, and then realises his hands are sticky with piss, and makes a disgusted sound. “I’m a disaster.” 

Eliot starts to fill the sink, grabs a cloth. “You are a disaster,” he agrees. And then, the words coming as easily as if he’d been planning them, “You need someone to take care of you.” 

_I want to take care of you._

“I’m sorry,” Quentin says again. He looks younger, smaller. Like layers of his defences have been peeled away. 

Eliot kisses his forehead. “Do I look like I mind?” he says. And then – wisely or unwisely – he takes Quentin’s hand and presses against his pants. Cock hard and obvious in Quentin’s palm. 

Quentin stares up at him, lips moving. “I...” 

“OK. I’m just – Look, I didn’t expect to be hard either. But I...” Eliot swallows. Throws mystery aside. If he can’t be honest with Quentin, he’ll never be honest with anyone. “I knew you needed to piss and it was turning me on. I should’ve... I should’ve made us take a break.” 

“I could’ve gone,” Quentin said. Staring at his hands. “I always think I can hold it and I – can’t.” 

He looks so woebegone. Small, limp. Eliot squeezes his shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

Quentin nods, but doesn’t do anything about it. Shifts from foot to foot in his wet jeans. 

“We need to get these pants off,” Eliot says. “Can I help?” 

Quentin bites his lip. He asks, “Are you – still hard?” 

“Yes, but.” Eliot swallows. “We don’t have to do anything about it. I just wanted you to know I – wasn’t horrified, or – I don’t know... mad at you.”

“Can I...” Quentin licks his lips. “Can I suck you off?” 

Quentin’s staring at his hands, cheeks flushed. His nose is stuffed up from the crying: he’s making snuffly noises in his throat. 

“Baby.” Eliot draws in a breath. “You don’t have to do that. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

And Quentin nods, peeling his jeans down. His boxers are soaked through and – fuck, he _pissed_ into those, he wasn’t able to help it, and why does Eliot find that so fucking _endearing?_

Quentin’s hands are shaky. When Eliot touches him, he can feel little trembly shivers under the skin. He ends up guiding Quentin through the process of cleaning up, and wraps him in a towel to lead him to the bedroom. As they cross the hallway, Eliot can hear distant voices and gunfire from the TV. 

“I do want to get you off,” Quentin says. Cheeks flushing. He sits on the edge of the bed they share, that they haven’t named _theirs_ yet. “Because this is the only time I’ve ever – I’ve ever had an accident and not wanted to just _die_ afterwards.” 

And OK, Eliot instantly imagines Quentin on his knees for him. The breathy sighs as he tries to take Eliot’s cock in his mouth. And it’s... Not what he wants right now, even though he does very much want Quentin to touch him. 

What he wants is Quentin warm and comfortable. He wants to hold him. He doesn’t want Quentin to feel like he _owes_ him an orgasm, just because he’s acting like a semi-decent human being. 

“I’m not – I just kind of want to hug you,” Eliot says. He passes Quentin his pyjamas, and Quentin dresses in the too-big stripey pyjama top and a fresh pair of boxers. He wraps his arms around himself, diminishing his body in a way Eliot hasn’t seen him do in a while. Looking like he’s still not sure Eliot wants him. 

“Come here,” Eliot says, in one of his most imperious tones, because that helps sometimes. And Quentin comes, lying next to Eliot on the bed, his head slotting under Eliot’s neck. Eliot strokes circles onto his back. 

“So I remember,” Eliot begins carefully. “In our other life. That you had an – an accident once or twice. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

Quentin doesn’t say anything. He untucks Eliot’s shirt from his pants, so he can worm his hand underneath it and rest his fingers on Eliot’s skin. 

“So this isn’t the first time you’ve –” Eliot doesn’t have a delicate way to finish that sentence. Misjudged? Peed yourself? 

Quentin shakes his head. And then nods. His cheeks are burning. Eliot can feel the heat of his face through his shirt. He smooths back Quentin’s hair. Tangles his fingers in the hair at Quentin’s nape, and tugs just a tiny bit. “You don’t have to...” Eliot begins. 

“I do,” Quentin says. “It’s _you_. I, uh. I... I’m a disaster, like you said. I think I can wait, or... I don’t want to ask, or I forget to go, and then it gets to intense and I...” 

He snuffles. Eliot scritches Quentin’s scalp, waiting. “I wet the bed til I was sixteen.” Quentin’s words come out in a rush. “But it never, like. Completely stopped. Ohgod.” He makes another little snuffling, sobbing sound, and his fingers fist in the back of Eliot’s shirt. “And I’ve been so... stressed. It makes it worse.” 

And Eliot’s completely forgotten about his boner now. He can hear the raw humiliation in Quentin’s voice, and he just... Wants to make everything better for him. Wants him to feel safe and loved, and never afraid to voice his needs. 

“It’s OK,” Eliot says, rocking him. He feels a rush of protectiveness all the way to the tips of his fingers. It’s like trying to contain a spell he doesn’t fully understand yet. It feels huge like that, and powerful. “Baby,” he says, running a finger over Quentin’s tear-damp cheek. “I love you; I love disasters.” 

“It didn’t make you hard,” Quentin says. “In Fillory.” 

“I know.” Eliot lets out a breath. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He stares at the ceiling, feels Q’s fingers touching the line of his scar, the warm skin of his stomach. “Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Quentin shakes his head. He’s nuzzling into Eliot, but Eliot can feel him drawing away, too. The way he does when he can’t talk about something, when something is too much. 

After a moment, Eliot asks, “Did it happen a lot when... When the Monster was here?”

Silence. Then a little nod against Eliot’s chest. “My body... likes to make everything worse for me. As if things aren’t bad enough.” 

Hearing Quentin’s small voice makes Eliot’s stomach clench and hurt. He puts his hand over Quentin’s. Begins to speak – but Quentin curls up smaller against him, burrowing into him. “I can’t,” he says. “Not right now.” 

And Eliot accepts that, and kisses the top of his head, and his cheek, and his neck. 

2.

That could have been the end of it, because then they roll into a bad time, with Quentin quiet and miserable, and Margo struggling to keep on top of things in Fillory. Eliot is torn in too many pieces: the last thing he’s thinking about is his dick. 

He and Quentin decide to spend a few nights in Fillory. It may be a mistake, Eliot thinks, every single part: Leaving New York. Touching anything magical. But there are shadows within Quentin’s eyes, and he says he wants to go, and Eliot remembers how happy they were in Fillory once, and thinks maybe it will help. 

And that’s how they wind up in one of the magical carriages, Quentin curled, miserable, into Eliot’s side. Eliot’s joints hurt, where the Monster wore them down, and his chest wall aches. Quentin’s chewing his thumbnail to blood, and Eliot doesn’t know what to say. He feels much farther away from Quentin than he ever wants to be. 

It helps that Quentin still lets Eliot hold him, though. Eliot has the greasy-stale scent of Quentin’s hair in his nose, and a tang of sweat. A pleasant, clean kind of sweat, the kind of smell that drove Eliot crazy when he was a teenager, when he knew he was _better_ than all the boys around him, and yet they smelt so good he just wanted to fucking touch someone or he’d go crazy. Quentin smells like that. It doesn’t drive Eliot crazy any more but it’s – nice. Grounding. 

Quentin’s eyes are drifting shut. Eliot rubs his fingers over the back of his neck, feeling the hard knots of his spine. They just had a completely unproductive meeting with the delegate from the Wandering Desert, and Eliot is miserable, too. Maybe they should just find a hut somewhere and build a different kind of life. 

He drifts, and wakes; drifts and wakes. The candles flicker magically into life at the windows. Q snores a little, lolls against Eliot’s chest. Then wakes up, stiff and pale, rubbing his eyes. “I hate this,” he says, voice thick with sleep. 

“We can go back home,” Eliot offers. “Whenever you want.” 

Quentin shrugs, winces. Rubs his face. “I keep dreaming about...” He stops. 

“About him? The Monster?” Eliot asks. Pushing himself not to be afraid of the words. 

Quentin wraps his arms around his chest. Drums his heels against the floor. “How long til we get back to Whitespire?” He’s looking out the window. Dark forest slides past. Dark sky. 

Eliot isn’t really sure. “Not long,” he says, wanting to be reassuring. 

This time, he doesn’t pick up on any of the signals. He’s sunk in his own tiredness and gloom: he vaguely appreciates Quentin’s warmth against him, and worries about him, and worries about Margo, and his head hurts, and he wants a fucking drink, and he’s not supposed to be drinking right now. And he’s not paying attention, until it’s too late. 

He would have done something this time. Stopped the carriage. But he’s only made aware by Quentin’s sudden sharp intake of breath, and Quentin writhing upwards on the seat beside him. 

“Quentin?” he asks, suddenly alert. 

And Quentin is pressing his hand into his crotch. His face is red and wet, his lip drawn tight between his teeth. He says, voice catching, “You said we wouldn’t be long.” 

_Oh fuck,_ Eliot thinks, and says, “I’ll stop the carriage now –” 

Quentin whimpers, shakes his head, hisses, “No, no, no, I can’t...” 

Eliot hears the soft drip-drip of liquid, and feels shuddering breaths running through Quentin’s trembling body. Quentin is clenching his fists, his face a mask of tension. Eliot feels fucking terrible: it’s his job to make Quentin OK. To make things easier – and he hasn’t done it. 

All he can do is rub Quentin’s back and says, “Hey, it’s OK, let it out, it doesn’t matter...” 

It _doesn’t_ matter. So what if Quentin misjudged his own limits? In the scheme of things, it’s barely a problem. 

But Quentin’s voice is rough. “It’s not OK. Fuck. Fuck, fuck this. It’s not OK.” 

He’s whimpering into his hands, and Eliot is wants to help him and also – 

Also he can’t see what’s happening between Quentin’s legs, and part of him is fucking desperate to know if Quentin is still pissing, if his poor little cock is still pouring liquid out into his pants and onto the seat and down onto the floor of the carriage. _Get a grip on yourself,_ he thinks. 

He kisses Quentin’s cheek, and puts his hand on Quentin’s thigh, and Quentin goes stiff, muscles tensing under his hand, and Eliot says, “No, no, baby, it’s OK, don’t stop.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Quentin breathes. His body goes limp. He sniffles. Defeated. And Eliot feels the wet cloth against his hand, and he rubs his fingers slowly back and forth to show Quentin he doesn’t mind, he isn’t disgusted but it’s not – that’s not really what he wants to do. He wants to feel the seam of Quentin’s pants, the wet wet hot wet piss against his hand as it dribbles inexorably from Quentin’s body. 

“You can’t help it,” Eliot breathes. He wants to comfort Quentin, but the words travel straight to his groin. “You can’t help it, baby. It’s OK.” 

Quentin chokes on a sob. “I thought I... could hold it. Oh god, Eliot.” 

He pitches his body towards Eliot’s, so suddenly he knocks the breath out of him. And the carriage jolts. _Fuckfuckfuck._ A painful tangle of limbs and then Quentin is in his lap. Eliot’s hands go to Quentin’s ass, steadying him, as Quentin straddles him, hiding his face in Eliot’s chest. Wet wet clothes pressed into Eliot’s perfect tailoring. 

Quentin sobs into Eliot’s mouth. “I’m a mess. I’m such a mess.” 

He is a mess. He couldn’t be more of a mess. And Eliot wants to eat up every part of him. Eliot loves this tense rush of closeness: they haven’t been together like this in weeks. God, he wants Quentin. He wants more and more of Quentin’s quivering, wet body, his red face, his clinging hands. 

“I’ve got you,” Eliot whispers, and he grabs a handful of Quentin’s hair, right up by his scalp, and tugs Quentin’s mouth to his, and they kiss with a clank of teeth and lapping tongues. 

“I miss you,” Eliot says. “Fuck, I miss you, we haven’t... We’ve been so far away.” 

Quentin squirms in his lap, the wet of his pants seeping inexorably into Eliot’s, and their bodies glide easily against one another, and Eliot is so fucking hard. Quentin makes a sound – a snort, a laugh, a sob – deep in his throat. “I’m – disgusting, El.” 

“I know.” It comes out like an endearment. “I know, I know, I want it, I want you...” 

Quentin’s kissing him again, sucking Eliot’s words into his mouth, a frantic press of teeth and lips. And Eliot thrusts up into Quentin’s crotch and says, “I could come in my pants.” 

“Let me...” Quentin slides his hands between them, and it’s the messiest, most uncomfortable hand-job Eliot’s ever had in his life. The raw itch of the cooling urine, and the knowledge that the carriage could stop any _minute_ , and the feeling like – like maybe he shouldn’t be responding to Quentin like this and yet – yet he comes harder than he thought possible. He sees stars. All the strength goes out of his limbs. 

“Oh,” Quentin says, and he sounds surprised and happy, and he brings his hand up to his mouth and licks off a smear of come. Eliot can feel the rest of it sliding down his leg. Quentin’s eyes are big and wet in the dim light; he presses his face into Eliot’s neck, nuzzles him, nips the skin. 

Eliot wants to hold Quentin close, closer. Wants to pull their bodies inside of each other. And he’s so boneless he can barely move. 

He coughs. “I’m going to be so fucking uncomfortable in like three minutes.” 

“Less, probably,” Quentin says, and there’s a warmth in his voice that Eliot hasn’t heard in weeks. 

“Are you OK, baby?” Eliot asks. He can’t – he can’t believe he did that. Quentin was so miserable and wet, and Eliot made it all about _his_ needs. 

“I think so.” He’s tucked in around Eliot like he’s never going to move, and Eliot is fine with that. “I, um. I don’t want Margo to see us like this. Or, you know. Tick.” 

“Fuck,” Eliot says. He’s too blissed out to think about that. He just wants to hold Quentin, and hold him, and hold him. 

But Quentin is getting anxious, and Eliot rouses himself. In the end, they decide to bribe the carriage care-taker, and creep up the back stairs.

It’s not that long before they draw up to the lights of the castle, though it’s long enough for the come and piss in Eliot’s clothes to get truly uncomfortable. Quentin hides behind him as he has an awkward conversation with the groom. Eliot also procures a lukewarm bath. 

Then everything is better; Eliot feels like he’s fixed every problem they’ve ever had. They wash, one after the other, pouring water on each other’s hair and backs. When Quentin is pinkwarm from the bath, towel wrapped around his shoulder, hair curling with steam, Eliot kisses him, and asks him again if he’s OK, and Quentin dimples at him and says, “I’m a fucking mess, you know that.” 

But his cock is half-hard, and he kisses Eliot back in that eager, needy way Eliot missed so much, and it means everything to be able to touch Quentin like this, and draw little happy grunts from his mouth. He licks every sturdy limb, every shadowed hollow. He sucks Quentin’s cock into his mouth, and thinks he’s fucking grateful that he’s such a pervert and that Quentin wet his pants, because it brought them to this moment. 

3.

The next time is nobody’s fault, really. They’re in bed, on earth, in warm fabric-softer scented sheets. They had a few drinks (Eliot’s allowed a couple now, thank _Christ_ ) – and then sex, Quentin’s mouth tense and hot around Eliot’s cock, his dark eyes looking up into Eliot’s face. And the sounds he made as Eliot took him apart, finger after finger sliding into his ass – perfect. They fell asleep curled around each other, naked, warm. 

Eliot feels impossibly lucky. 

When he wakes up he’s still warm, too warm – sticky with it. Quentin is octopused around him, leg hooked over Eliot’s stomach, face pressed into his neck. He’s making faint sounds in his sleep – indistinct and distressed. Eliot’s hand goes to Quentin’s back to rub soothing circles, and that’s the moment he realises – 

Quentin is pissing onto Eliot’s belly. Naked, his cock flush against Eliot’s skin, the liquid pooling then welling over. Eliot can feel it more than see or hear it. His own body floods with tension, surprise. His cock soft against his leg. He doesn’t move – he lets Quentin piss on him, the urine leak and overspill. The sheets are getting wet. He’s soaked, glistening with it. 

And then it stops, and Quentin sighs, and nestles closer to Eliot, leg disturbing the pool. He doesn’t wake up. Eliot is – frozen. He lies there, holding Quentin’s body, the body that relaxed and spilled itself against him, and he’s thinking of the little sounds Quentin makes and how Quentin wasn’t in control, how it just _happened,_ and it feels intimate in a way Eliot can’t articulate to himself. 

But the piss is cooling, and he can’t lie like this all night. He wraps his arm around Quentin, sits up a little, and whispers, “Sweetheart, we need to get cleaned up.” 

Quentin wakes soft and pliant, pressing his face into Eliot’s neck, and Eliot can feel the tension begin, running through his whole body, as he realises what happens. 

“It’s OK,” Eliot says, before Quentin can speak. “It’s all right, we’ll get clean, and we can get back to sleep. It’s not a big deal.” 

“Fuck,” Quentin is saying in return. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh god, Eliot.” 

His voice trembles. He’s quivering with tension. Eliot turns the light on. And reveals: the pool on the bed, on his skin, and Quentin’s panicked expression. “Don’t look!” Quentin says, choked, and hides his face with his hands, as though he can vanish into the sheets. 

Eliot can’t let him feel like that. Ashamed and sad, when he’s done nothing wrong. 

He hugs Quentin to him again, feeling Quentin’s body stiffen. “We’re going to go to the bathroom and – I’m gonna shower. And we’ll change the sheets. And you’ll feel better. And I’m not mad or – grossed out, or anything, baby. I’m not.” 

Quentin doesn’t move. After a moment, he says, “Why aren’t you?” 

“I’ve never been before, have I?” Eliot says. 

Quentin twitches. Shakes his head. “It gets you hot,” he says, after a moment. 

“Yeah.” Eliot swallows. So they’re doing this now, are they? “But even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t be mad at you. It’s not your fault. It just – happened. You couldn’t help it.” 

“I’m an adult. I shouldn’t piss the fucking bed.” 

“It happens to lots of adults.” Eliot tries to make his voice soothing, reasonable. “And you said it happens when you’re stressed – didn’t you? That’s understandable.” 

“No it’s not.” But Quentin finally begins to lean into Eliot. “I peed all over you.” 

“You certainly did,” Eliot agrees. 

“Do you like that?” Quentin twists his fingers together. “Like – golden showers?” 

“No,” he says, honestly. “I like when you’re – not in control. In this fundamental way. I want to help you.” 

Quentin’s quiet. Eventually, he says, “OK.” 

“OK?” Eliot prompts. Quentin’s hiding his face, breath coming quick against Eliot’s chest. Eliot is afraid that it’s very much not OK. 

Quentin takes another shaky breath. Like he’s on the brink of something scary. “I like it when you take care of me. Of this... I like how you make me feel like I’m not disgusting.” 

Eliot kisses his hair. “Of course you’re not disgusting.” 

Quentin snorts. “I’m, uh. Pretty sticky right now. Not as sticky as you, though.” 

He looks up at Eliot, then, and it’s the same look he gives Eliot when he’s hard and he’s desperate to be fucked or – kissed, or taken care of. And Eliot loves that look; and loves that now, too, he knows exactly how to take care of Quentin. 

“Come on, baby,” he says, and helps Quentin up. They shower together, sharing the too-small shower head. Hair fluffing up with steam. 

4.

It’s hard to for Eliot to talk about, too, because he doesn’t know how to say, “I like it when you pee your pants; I wish you’d do it more,” but it’s his role to take the lead on these things, and he doesn’t want to shirk it. 

He decides to talk to Margo about it – which is. Well, he knows it’s not completely his thing to talk about, and in doing so he also has to edge around his own embarrassment, but talking to Bambi is basically like talking to himself, and he doesn’t know how else to solve a problem. 

On her second day back from Fillory, he brings her a cosmopolitan, and they sit in the rooftop garden, overlooking the city. She touches him: cheek, neck, shoulder. Casually, but like she’s making sure he’s still there. He leans into her, feels her settle easily against his body. Up here, there’s a pleasantly cool breeze. 

“I, uh. Can I talk about a weird sex thing?” 

“I’m glad you opened with that. Life is getting back to normal.” Margo’s smile is just the right kind of wicked, and Eliot touches a kiss to her forehead. 

Then he’s silent, trying to put it into words, and Margo says, “Jesus, El. What is it?” 

“Well.” Eliot swallows. “It’s become apparent to me that I get turned on by more things than I realised.” 

He stops. Margo sips her drink, looks expectant. 

“So there’s this person in my life...” He trails off again. 

“Quentin,” Margo says. “What did he do? Why aren’t you using his name?”

“To protect his dignity.” 

“Does he have dignity?” 

“Bambi.” Eliot jostles her lightly with his elbow. “Don’t be mean.” 

“So this person.” She raises her eyebrows extravagantly. “What’s up? Is he making you play Dungeons and Dragons?” 

Eliot sighs. “Oh no, nothing as dark as that. It’s just... Ikindoflikeitwhenhepees.” 

Margo takes a moment to process that. “In general? Or under particular circumstances?” 

“Um...” 

“El.” Margo squeezes his arm. “I’m going to need all the information before I can pass judgement.” 

So he downs the rest of his cocktail and tells her. The times Quentin has lost control. The little breathy sounds he makes. The wonderful heat of it. The tension in his body. The crying. The way he can’t stop thinking about Quentin having another accident, and how he wants to watch Quentin fight to stay in control, and lose, and how he’ll lick up Quentin’s tears and come on Quentin’s piss-wet clothes. 

Margo listens with an unreadable, cat-like expression. Touches her tongue to the corner of her mouth. He waits for her to start mocking him. Instead, she says, “God, you like Q _so much.”_

That’s not exactly news, so Eliot doesn’t reply. He smooths his silk scarf. “What should I do?” 

“Is he into it?” 

“Sometimes? Kind of?” Eliot rubs his fingertips together. “I want to talk to him about it, but I don’t know how to lay it all out before he dies of embarrassment.” 

Margo laughs. “You’re flustered about this too.” 

“I am. I’m _dying._ But he’s so much worse.” 

“Oh, El.” Margo leans back into the seat, swinging her legs. “The problem with loving that he’s a complete disaster is that you also have to manage him being a complete disaster.” 

Eliot sighs. “I know.” He puts his hand on her knee, rubs his thumb over the smooth skin. “I can’t believe you’re not mocking me.” 

Margo shrugs. “Everybody’s got a thing. I’m definitely not sleeping in your bed unless you can guarantee it’s 100% urine free, though.” 

“That’s fair.” 

So after cocktails, a Fillory catch-up and a relaxing bitch-session about the library, Eliot makes his way back to downstairs, determined to talk it all through with Quentin. 

Who’s in bed – he got up today, though, so Eliot counts it as a win – reading a fantasy novel. He has extravagant bed-head, and he blinks at Eliot slowly. “Did you see Margo?” he asks. The words seem to come from a distance. 

Eliot nods. Sits on the edge of the bed. “Is this a bad day?” 

He says it slow and careful, but Quentin flinches. “Not really. No. I don’t know.” He rubs his cheek. “I should shave.” 

“You should shower,” Eliot says, because that’s always the priority. He smooths down Quentin’s greasy hair, and kisses his temple, because honestly he always wants to kiss Quentin. 

“I will.” Quentin doesn’t get up, but he puts the envelope he’s using as a bookmark into the book and lets it fall shut. “Were you talking to Margo?” 

“Yeah. She was –” Eliot wants to tell Quentin about their conversation, but he doesn’t know how to do so without Quentin hiding under the bed in mortification. 

He scoots a little closer to Quentin on the bed.“We probably, uh. Need to talk about sex. Maybe I need to.” 

Quentin draws his knees up to his chest. “OK.” 

“I like – taking care of you. I like how eager you are when I give you instructions.” Eliot tries to form the words carefully. 

Quentin nods, more eager than Eliot had anticipated. “I hate being in charge.” 

That wasn’t the way Eliot expected him to put it, and it makes him smile. “I know you do, baby.” Eliot rubs the edge of the bedsheet between his fingers. “I think that’s – part of why I like it when you – have an accident. It shows me how much you’re not in control.” 

Quentin stares at his hands. Doesn’t speak. 

“It’s not – it’s not something we ever have to explore,” Eliot says quickly. “I know it makes you uncomfortable...” 

“It reminds me of all the most humiliating times in my life,” Quentin interrupts him. “All the times I was – way too old to piss myself, and somehow ended up wetting my pants on the bus or on the way home from the movies, or – or wet the fucking bed when I was a college freshman. It was – fucking horrible, El. I wanted to die.” 

“I know, I’m sorry –” 

Quentin looks up at him. “You make it different.” He pauses. “It’s – it’s like you take a part of me that’s horrible and make it into something better, and I – feel like you’re fixing me, or healing me.” His voice is cracking. God, Quentin cries so easily. It’s – hard for Eliot, sometimes, because he feels like if Quentin cries it must be the end of the world. But it isn’t: it’s probably healthy, the way Quentin cries. 

He hold his arms out to Quentin, and Q crawls into them at once. “You make me feel safe,” Quentin says, and tucks his head into the side of Eliot’s neck. Snuffles. Eliot takes a deep breath; feels like his chest is overfull. Bursting with adoration for his brave, brave Quentin. 

Quentin reaches for Eliot’s hand, raises it to his lips, and sucks Eliot’s finger into his mouth. Which is – something he’s been doing over the last few weeks, not in a flirtatious way, but like it comforts him. He sighs through his nose, shoulders slumping.

“Baby,” Eliot breathes. “I’m really proud of you for telling me all of that. It’s all I want, you know. You to feel safe.” 

Quentin nods, leans into Eliot. After a moment, he slides the fingers out of his mouth again. “El.” He shifts his weight. “I didn’t, like, plan this, but I had juice and then a nap, and I’ve been sitting here reading for like an hour, and I... I really have to piss.” 

“Um.” Eliot tries not to sound too interested. “Do you?” 

“I don’t wanna... pee on the bed. But, uh.” Quentin looks at his hands. “I don’t know what you want, exactly, but. If you want me to – we can. Do something.” 

Eliot stills Quentin’s fingers, where they’re worrying against one another. “You need a shower, anyway. Let’s go into the bathroom.” 

Quentin nods, lets Eliot guide him into the adjoining bathroom. He’s swaying a little on his feet. 

When Eliot closes the door behind them, it’s feels a little weird. It’s always weird to be in the bathroom with someone else. It’s a solitary space. The room is very white, sterile, brightened by a handful of towels, a jumble of toothbrushes. 

“Are you OK?” Eliot asks again, and Quentin worries his lip in his teeth. 

“El, El – I gotta go.” He whines a little. The way he looks up at Eliot, Eliot can see how much Quentin wants him to take charge. 

And that – that’s a rush. A warmth spreading through him. “Stand in the bath,” Eliot says. 

Quentin moves shakily into the tub. Tugging his sleeves over his hands. Eliot gets in too, stands beside him. Is, for a moment, struck by the ridiculousness of the scene: the two of them, clothed, in the tub. Eliot hasn’t really thought this through. He doesn’t want Quentin to know that, though. 

He reaches down, touches Quentin’s cock through his pants. “Poor baby,” he says. “Do you need to pee?” 

_”Yes.”_ Quentin squints up at him through his hair. 

“I want you to...” Eliot takes a breath. “I want you on top of me. I want you squirming. I want you to try to hold it.” 

He feels – flustered when he says it out loud. A little horrified. Afraid of Quentin’s reaction. But all Quentin says is, “In the tub?” 

It takes a moment to work out the logistics. Eliot sits with his back against the end of the bath, legs in front of him, Quentin with his back to Eliot’s chest, scrunched up in his lap. Quentin’s tangled hair in his face. And Quentin is already wriggling: Eliot doesn’t have to ask him to.

Eliot kisses the back of Quentin’s head. “I’d kind of rather we were on the bed,” Eliot says, thinking about – mess. About wetness. About Quentin’s sodden clothes. 

“We’d need to buy a mattress protector,” Quentin says, practical. “Or learn some kind of spell.” 

And Eliot is so fond of him for just... going with this. Even though he’s warm and flustered and anxious. He squirms back into Eliot’s lap. Tilts his head up to look at Eliot. “You love these pants,” he says. 

Eliot looks down at his cashmere-blend pants. Dry-clean only. And he doesn’t _care_. Or maybe that’s part of why he likes this so much. 

He runs his fingers over Quentin’s chin, strokes Quentin’s throat. “How do you feel?” 

“Warm.” Then Quentin whimpers. “Like I’m gonna – like I can’t hold it.” 

“Don’t,” Eliot says. “Don’t hold it any more. Piss. Please.” 

“Ohgod.” Quentin’s head lolls back. He fists his hands in his sleeves. His hips are moving against Eliot’s lap, his toes curling. And then Eliot hears the – hiss of released urine. The heat spilling over Quentin’s lap. 

“Oh.” He hears his breath come, a little gasp. He kisses Quentin’s cheek, his ear, his neck. Drinking him in. And Quentin sighs, and the urine slicks through Quentin’s trousers, his groin outlined by the wet cloth. It pools under them. The room is full of the sudden hot-sharp scent of piss. Eliot’s warm – he’s so warm. 

And it’s not.... It’s not exactly as hot as he thought it was going to be. He’s half-hard, and he feels awkward, and the tub digs into his back and legs, but it’s also... It’s so intimate. “Baby,” he whispers. Awed. 

Quentin tilts his head back, lips parted. “Eliot,” he replies, soft and loving. Eliot laces their fingers together. Thrust up against Quentin’s ass. He doesn’t think he’s going to come, he just wants to be here, in the wet, in the warmth, with Quentin. 

5.

They’re in an orchard in Fillory. It’s evening, the leaves touched with golden light, drowsy wasps buzzing around the pears. It’s ridiculously bucolic, and it feels like home. Home – even though Eliot’s body has never lived through the seasons on Fillory, has never slept in a sun-warm orchard, has never lifted his son to pluck a peach from a tree. It’s a strange feeling, remembering that, like slipping sideways. 

“It’s very Proustian,” Quentin says, rubbing a pear between his fingers. He looks a little sun-dazed: they’ve been walking all evening, enjoying the moments of peace. Dazed, too, like Eliot, by the memories. 

“Hmm.” Eliot knows about the madeleine moment, but he suspects Quentin has actually read Proust, and he doesn’t want to encourage a conversation in that direction. “Should we take some of these back?” 

“To the castle?” Quentin looks up at the fruit-laden boughs. 

“Just a few. I like the smell.” 

Quentin nods. “I like it too. They’re not ours, though.” 

They decide to take a some anyway. There are plenty of windfalls, with wasps buzzing around them, so it’s clearly not an orchard that’s being heavily cultivated. 

They work quietly, passing fruit to each other. It’s familiar and strange at the same time. They could talk about it but it’s – comforting, somehow, just to stand side by side, and know that they’re both feeling the same thing. 

Eliot puts his arm around Quentin’s shoulders. “I could stay here all night.” 

Quentin tucks himself against Eliot’s side, like it’s an instinct to fit himself into Eliot’s body. The sky is darkening, the shadows long. But both of Fillory’s moons are rising, and Eliot can see Quentin’s face easily. He’s worrying his lip between his teeth. 

“Are you OK?” Eliot asks. 

“Mm.” Quentin slips free of Eliot’s arm, and bends to settle the stolen pears more carefully in the folded jacket they’re using as a bag. He stands up quickly, and rocks a little on his heels. 

It strikes Eliot suddenly, and he asks: “Do you need to pee?” 

Quentin goes a little red, and then he shakes his head. “I’m fine.” But he says it in a petulant, sulky tone, like a kid who doesn’t want to stop playing. And Eliot thinks it’s an invitation to push him a little. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I can hold it,” Quentin says. And he points out a silvery moth at the other end of the orchard, and starts walking towards it. 

Eliot follows him. Thinking. 

They sit on the low wall. Sheep, in the field behind them, are settling down for the night. The air is very still. It feels, again, like home, like a place he knows so well it’s under his skin. But it all feels new to him too. Disconcerting and comforting at the same time. He takes Quentin’s hand. 

Quentin rubs his thumb over Eliot’s palm. And wriggles his thighs. 

“You can use a tree, you know.”

“I can wait,” Quentin says, looking up at him under his lashes. There’s worry in that look, but he’s also teasing Eliot. Testing him. 

Eliot takes Quentin’s chin, tilts his face up, and kisses him. Slow, and then deep, tasting pear in Quentin’s mouth. Quentin melts into it, making a little eager sound in his throat. They kiss slow and sweet, Eliot letting Quentin guide him, feeling Quentin tug his lower lip into his mouth, touch tongue to tongue. 

He’s getting lost in it and then – Quentin makes a little sound, and slides off the wall. His hand goes to his groin. Squeezes. He looks at Eliot, eyes dark and shining, lip between his teeth. Knees rubbing against one another. 

“I don’t think you can wait, baby.” He feels protective: it’s his job to take charge. To keep Quentin’s pants dry. He likes that it’s his job. 

Quentin makes a little raw sound in his throat. He’s flushed again, but he’s looking at Eliot, expectant. And Eliot says, “Can I help you?” 

He nods, eagerly. Like that’s what he’s been waiting for all along. “I –” Quentin sways a little, knees bobbing. “’M getting wet.” 

“Already?” Eliot asks, eyes flicking to Quentin’s groin. He can’t see anything yet. 

His eyes are wet, too, his hands clenched by his sides. He looks so small, and so helpless, and Eliot is so glad to take over. He moves quickly, hands going to Quentin’s waist. He’s wearing Fillorian pants, so they don’t have a fly: they have to be pulled down. Eliot struggles for a second with the belt, then tugs them over Quentin’s hips. He’s not wearing boxers, and his small cock is dribbling down his leg, pale drops of urine. A spurt flows over Eliot’s hand as he scrambles to grasp Quentin’s dick. 

“Can’t stop,” Quentin says, and he sounds genuinely anxious now. “El –”

Eliot aims the piss away from Quentin’s legs. “You don’t have to stop. Let go, baby.” 

Quentin makes a little whimpering sound, and sways, leaning into Eliot, as though his legs don’t want to take his weight. Eliot wraps his free arm around Quentin’s waist, and feels the tension go out of Quentin’s body as he pisses – and pisses, a thin pale arc. 

“You really had to go, huh?” Eliot says. He thinks he can feel the piss moving through Quentin’s cock, but maybe it’s just that he’s so goddamn intrigued by it. He’s getting hard. And Quentin is so warm and soft in his arms now, limp. Letting Eliot take charge of this. 

“Couldn’t hold it,” Quentin agrees. His voice is small, guileless. But those are exactly the words Eliot wanted to hear, the words that make this so hot. And he’s told Quentin that. He kisses the top of Quentin’s head, watches the last dribble of urine fall into the grass. 

Then Quentin turns, pants around his ankles, and nestles into Eliot’s chest. He must feel Eliot’s cock hard against his stomach, but he doesn’t react. He reaches for Eliot’s hand, the dry one, the one that didn’t get peed on, and lifts it to his mouth. He sucks Eliot’s first two fingers into his mouth, tongue lapping at Eliot’s palm. Eliot can feel the heat of Quentin’s throat, the softness. The pressure as Quentin sucks. 

Quentin sighs, a content sound, free from anxiety. His eyes drift shut, as if he’s somewhere far away, and safe. Makes little snuffly sounds as he sucks. And Eliot hold him and feels – a weight of contentment settling in his chest. His Quentin – so calm, so safe: letting himself be held like this. Looking for what he needs, and taking it. 

Then Quentin sinks to his knees on the grass. Eliot’s fingers still in his mouth. He tugs at Eliot’s pants. “Baby, you don’t have to –” he begins, but Quentin’s fingers grip hot around his cock, and he looks up at Eliot, lets the fingers fall from his mouth, and says, “El, please.” 

The _please_ seems to mean _please shut up._ Quentin’s eyes are huge and glassy – the way he gets when Eliot bosses him around in just the right way. He transfers his mouth to Eliot’s cock, laps at it eagerly, shutting his eyes. He fits Eliot’s cockhead into his mouth, sucking, sucking, like he’s seeking comfort here, too. His hand wraps around Eliot’s shaft, and the sensation stretches around Eliot: the suck-suck of Quentin’s mouth, too soft to be entirely satisfying, and the warm weight of his hand. A bird sings far off. The stars are coming out. One of the sheep, on the other side of the wall, looks up at him. 

Quentin sighs again, sounding almost sleepy. The sensation stretches – stretches – Eliot stops himself from thrusting. Whispers to Quentin, “You’re a good boy. You’re doing so well. You’re so good, Q. You’re so good...” 

At last, Quentin begins to move his head and his hand, rhythmical, and Eliot moans, feeling the heat gather and focus in his groin. He tangles his hand in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin hums in pleasure. Quentin’s mouth so warm on his skin. He wants to look at him, look at that mouth on his cock, Quentin kneeling for him, but his eyes drift shut as his hips arc into Quentin’s touch. And Quentin takes him apart, the same way he takes Quentin apart. 

&1\. 

“You’re never going to want to fuck me again,” Quentin says, staring at the package of diapers like they’re toxic. They’ve talked about this twice already, before the diapers arrived in the mail, but Quentin’s still edgy about it. 

“Are you really worried about that?” Eliot says. “I’ve jerked off about this twice in the last day.”

“You pervert.” Quentin sounds relieved. “They’re the least sexy things I’ve ever seen.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off them though. He brings his sleeve to his mouth, nibbles on a corner of it. 

“We don’t have to use them,” Eliot says. “It’s was just. An idea.” 

“You’re not going to be using them.” Quentin sounds surly, which is better than scared. Eliot is prepared to push him a little. 

“OK, well. _You_ don’t have to,” he says. “But I think you’ll be disappointed if you don’t try it.” 

Quentin flops down on the bed. He looks up at Eliot, and then down at his lap. Cheeks are flushed, but Eliot has a pretty good handle on Quentin’s levels of humiliation these days, and he knows this is a I’m-interesed-but-I-don’t-think-I-should-be flush. 

“Put me in one.” Quentin’s tone is incredibly put upon. 

“Yeah?” 

Quentin nods, folding his arms over chest. 

“OK, baby.” Eliot reaches down to stroke Q’s hair out of his eyes. He’s pleased by the quick acquiescence, and a little flustered now it’s actually happening. He licks his lips, not wanting to show that he’s not completely sure what he’s doing. 

“Lie back on the bed, hmm? Let me take your pants off.” 

Quentin squeezes his eyes shut and lets Eliot get to work. He doesn’t move, other than to raise his hips when Eliot asks him to. No comments at all. Eliot touches his cheek, runs his fingers over the stubble on his chin. He looks so vulnerable it makes Eliot’s throat feel hot and strange, like he’s going to cry. God, he loves him. It’s so much. 

Getting the diaper on is – slightly harder than Eliot had anticipated, even though he watched several online tutorials. Which was an education in itself – about the kind of people who were into this. The kind of freak he is. The word freak sits easily in his mind: that’s what he’s always been, and he’s fine with it. 

He rubs Quentin’s belly, reminding him he’s being taken care of, and makes sure the diaper sits flush to Quentin’s hips. There are a few times when he’s afraid the tabs aren’t going to stick in the right places, and he doesn’t want Quentin to think he’s anything less than completely competent. But he gets there. 

“Pyjamas?” he asks. 

Quentin blinks at him. His eyes are dreamy. He spreads his thighs a little, wriggles his toes. 

“How does it feel?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin sits up slowly. He coughs, then laughs a little. “Um, warm,” he says at last. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “Pyjamas, then a hug?” 

“Of course,” Eliot says. He gets the pyjamas, looking into Quentin’s face. Afraid that – he’s done the wrong thing, he’s pushed Quentin somewhere far away, and terrible. But Quentin’s looking up at him with open affection, and trust, and it’s familiar. It’s how Quentin looks when he’s the best kind of humiliated and fucked out and needy. He’s never thought Quentin could get to that place so fast. 

Quentin helps with the pyjamas in a clumsy kind of way, and then snuggles into Eliot’s arms like he can’t imagine being anywhere else. He takes Eliot’s hand and sucks two of Eliot’s fingers into his mouth, eyes sliding shut. A firm, hot pressure against Eliot’s hand. He’s not trying to be sexy: Eliot can see this for what it is. Quentin’s trying to self-soothe. But Eliot’s cock feels hard and tight. 

“Good boy,” Eliot says, stroking Quentin’s hair. Quentin smiles a little. Nuzzles closer. Hums to himself. Sighs softly. His hips thrust a little, and Eliot palms Quentin’s crotch, but as far as he can tell, he’s not hard. 

“What do you want to do?” he asks, and Quentin looks at him with a weight of love in his eyes, and reaches to touch Eliot’s face, playing with Eliot’s curls. 

Quentin breathes out a shaky sigh, like he’s at the tense edge of an emotion. Eliot’s fingers slide out of his mouth with a wet pop. “I... This,” he says. “Watch something?” His fingers wrap around Eliot’s shirt. “I want you.” 

“You want me to hold you?” Eliot clarifies, and Quentin sighs and nods and sucks Eliot’s fingers back into his mouth, like he missed them. 

Eliot can do that. Eliot – wants to do that. This isn’t exactly what he anticipated, but he also loves to see Quentin like this: calm and open and trusting. He’s not thrusting his cock into Quentin’s piss-wet diaper, but maybe that’s a fantasy for another day. Or another life. He’s content. 

Quentin clearly isn’t in a talking frame of mind, and Eliot eventually turns on the TV, finds a Netflix show Julia mentioned to him. Drifts in and out: parts of _Sense8_ enter his thoughts, part of him is entirely focused on Quentin and this moment. 

A long time passes, and then Quentin blinks slowly, like he’s waking up, and lets Eliot’s wet, wrinkled fingers fall from his mouth. “Baby?” Eliot asks softly. 

“Hmm.” Quentin blinks a few times. “I’m – I’m good. I feel good.” 

Eliot kisses his temple. “Relaxed, huh?” 

Quentin nods, and then says, “So I guess you want me to pee in this diaper?” 

“Yeah?” Eliot swallows. “I mean, only if you want to.” 

Quentin sits up a little. “I gotta go,” he says, and it’s the least embarrassed he’s ever sounded when admitting to that. Then he takes Eliot’s hand, and presses it flush to his crotch. 

“I might get it on you.” There’s a little smile. “I don’t know how good your skills are. But you don’t mind.” 

“I don’t mind,” Eliot agrees, and he can’t feel anything other than the padding against his hand, and it’s basically just – warm cotton, but it’s so intensely interesting to him. 

Quentin squirms once, tenses, and then sighs, head falling back onto Eliot’s shoulder. 

“Are you – going?” Eliot asks. 

Quentin nods. “It shouldn’t be this easy to just – pee. In bed. I thought I’d have to fight years of potty training.” 

Eliot can feel the warmth against his hand now. No wetness, just heat. “Well.” He licks his lips, risks a joke. “You were never that good at it, were you?” 

Quentin chuckles. “Fuck you,” he says, and wriggles so his padded crotch grinds into Eliot’s hand. “It’s so warm. It doesn’t feel wet, just hot. Burning hot.” 

“Bad?” Eliot asks.

Quentin shakes his head. He nuzzles into Eliot’s neck, sighing through his nose. “Good,” he says after a moment. “That’s so fucked up.” 

Eliot looks down at him. His skin is hot, his lips parted, his eyes huge. “You’re perfect,” Eliot says. “I love you like this.” 

“I’m done now,” Quentin says. He takes Eliot’s free hand, lifts it to his mouth and presses the tips of Eliot’s fingers to his lips. 

“Do you want...” Eliot swallows, his own crotch hot with blood as his fingers press against the swollen weight of Quentin’s used diaper. “Do you want me to change you?” 

Quentin sighs, and shakes his head. “Stay here. Just for a minute.” He tugs Eliot down, so they’re lying on the bed, clothed bodies pressed close. Eliot hooks his leg over Quentin’s hips. Quentin isn’t sucking his fingers, but he’s still holding them to his mouth. 

“I...” Quentin wriggles. “I feel so small and so safe.” 

The words settle in Eliot’s chest like brandy. “Oh, baby. I’m glad.” 

“Soon you’ll change me,” Quentin says. Voice dreamy. “Then we’ll eat dinner. And everything will be OK.” 

“It will,” Eliot says. And he holds Quentin. And it’s not – it’s nothing like the fantasies he was having. But he’s given Quentin something he needed. And he feels so calm, and so complete. He cards his fingers through Quentin’s hair, and feels Quentin’s mouth latch onto the fingers of his other hand. And, holding his boyfriend, he thinks about what to make for dinner.


	2. a little wetter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little extra piece, in which Eliot and Quentin have agreed on a set of rules for Quentin to follow to help him with his anxiety. Eliot is supposed to tell Quentin when to go to the bathroom. What if he forgets?

Quentin woke to the warm thrum of Eliot’s heart under his ear. He yawned, nuzzling closer into Eliot’s chest. They were in the living room, but he wasn’t really sure what time of day it was. 

“Are you awake?” He felt Eliot’s fingers wind through his hair. 

“Not sure.” Quentin sighed, trying to let go of the hazy dreams. He was slightly too warm, aware that, snuggled onto Eliot’s lap as he was, he must be putting El’s legs to sleep. But he was also very cosy. 

“You’ve been asleep for about an hour. For a while, you were wriggling around like a puppy.” 

Quentin yawned. “Do I have to get up?” 

“Hm.” Eliot’s fingers continued to card through Q’s hair, gently smoothing it off his forehead. “Yes, baby. Remember how we’re trying to stick to a daytime schedule?” 

Quentin slid off Eliot’s lap, onto the couch beside him, but stayed snuggling into Eliot’s side. “I know. S’just hard.” 

“I’ll get you a drink.” 

It was hard, when Eliot stood up: for a while, Quentin hadn’t been able to let go of Eliot at all, and there’d been days when he’d sat outside the bathroom while Eliot was in there, telling himself to be calm. Today it was a little better: he could watch Eliot go into the kitchen, and wait without his heart hammering in his throat. 

Quentin sipped the cup of juice Eliot gave him. He hadn’t noticed his mouth was dry until he started drinking, but he hadn’t been very good at keeping track of what his body needed. It was a relief to know Eliot was in charge of that now. 

“We said we’d help Bambi with the location spell, remember?” Eliot said. 

Quentin nodded. They hadn’t been doing a lot of magic lately: just little spells, like warming up a blanket, or lighting a candle. This would be more intense. 

“I’ll get it set up. You finish you drink.”

Quentin stayed on the sofa, sipping the apple juice. He felt like he maybe had to pee, but Eliot was in charge of potty breaks, so he ignored the feeling, concentrating on Eliot’s hands as he laid out the leaves of self-heal, the ginger-root, the candles. 

“Do you want me to work on the circumstances?” Quentin asked. 

“Do you feel up for it?” 

Quentin wasn’t sure. But he got a pad and pen, and settled back on the sofa. For a little while, everything was calm, just the sound of pen on paper, and Eliot shuffling through maps. Quentin’s leg jiggled, and he calmed it. 

Maybe half an hour passed. Quentin put the cup on the floor: Eliot looked over at him. “Are you ready?” 

“I think so. It’s been a while since I’ve cast.” 

“Me too.” Eliot stood up, reached for Quentin’s hand. Quentin let himself be drawn up, felt Eliot’s arms go around him. “We can just cast in here. If it gets too much, you stop, OK?” 

“Mm.” Quentin nodded. 

“Say, ‘I promise Daddy that if casting is too hard I’ll tell him I need to stop’.” 

Quentin snorted. “I don’t wanna.” 

“Baby.” Eliot’s voice was soft and – gently chiding. Quentin wasn’t sure what Eliot would do if he actually refused. Quentin never did. 

“Daddy, I promise that if it gets too hard, I’ll stop.” Quentin was rewarded with a soft kiss on the forehead, a squeeze of Eliot’s arms. 

As he took a step over to the table, he was aware of an ache in his bladder: a deep, primal need. But they were casting now and – maybe Eliot would think he didn’t want to do it if he asked to go pee. Besides – Eliot decided when Quentin went to the bathroom. That was one of the rules. 

They stood, hand in hand, and began to cast. It wasn’t a difficult spell, but it was easier to do here than it would have been in Fillory, so they were genuinely helping Margo. It had been a while since Quentin really tried to chant a spell, even with Eliot, and it felt familiar and strange at the same time. As he raised his fingers in a tut, he felt a glow of power, sharp and hot. 

It felt dreamlike, as though he was still asleep on the sofa. The light seemed made of honey. Minutes passed – then it was over, the green sparkles settling across the map. 

“Fuck!” Eliot was grinning. “It worked.” He kissed Quentin again, his cheek, then his mouth. Quentin tipped up into the kiss, deepening it, licking at Eliot’s lips. 

Eliot put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder, steadied him. “I promised I’d tell Bambi right away. I have to loop through the library, but I should be able to get through to her.” 

The rush of magic felt warm in Quentin’s chest. He nuzzled into Eliot’s cheek. “You’re very helpful.” 

“And you’re a very good boy,” Eliot returned, soft and quiet. “Do you want so suck Daddy’s cock, hm?” 

Quentin felt a warmth in his cheeks. Always – he always wanted to. He always wanted to snuggle into Daddy and suck him and make him feel good. And yet: some little part of him remained embarrassed every time he heard Eliot say it. 

“Yes, Daddy,” he whispered. 

Eliot put his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck, squeezing lightly. Quentin felt a rush of good, things that didn’t really have names: _small, safe, little, held_ were all part of the feeling, but they didn’t quite encapsulate it. 

_I needta go potty,_ that little part of himself realised. _I need to go bad!_

But Quentin didn’t say anything because Eliot was drawing away from him. “I have to call Bambi. Then we can cuddle, and then maybe I’ll take you out for coffee? We can work on your therapy homework in the cafe.” 

Quentin bit his lip, nodded. Eliot kissed him again, the nose this time. “Don’t worry, baby. We can get it done together.” 

And then he left Quentin in the living room, all by himself, so he could call Margo. And that was – fine. Except Quentin felt – very, very small now. He wanted his Daddy, the safety of Eliot’s arms and he wanted to nuzzle into Eliot’s side and suck his fingers and maybe settle between his legs and suck Eliot’s cock into his mouth, and listen as Eliot’s breath grew slow and then fast. 

He sat on the swivel chair by the table, where the ginger-root and dried flowers were still laid out. The smell of ginger was sharp in the air, but not unpleasant. He squirmed again, and reached down one hand and squeezed his dick, and felt the heavy weight of his bladder pulse deep in his groin. 

He should just go to the bathroom, he wasn’t a baby – 

Except, he _was_ a baby. That was – that was the point, that was what made everything safe and contained. He was a baby and Eliot made the decisions, all the little really hard decisions, like when he should go pee and when he should eat and when he should sleep – 

So he – sat on the swivel chair, and flicked through his phone, and played three, then four, levels on one of the games, and he could hear Eliot laughing in the other room, and everything was fine – 

Another level, and he put the phone down, and leant forward to grab his book, and – oh – 

A cramp in his stomach, a pulse of need, his hand flew to his crotch in surprise, like maybe it would be wet, like maybe he was wetting his pants – but it was dry, thank _fuck_ , and he sat there, frozen, thinking – 

_I’m a big boy, I just need to get up and go potty;_ and also thinking, _Daddy will be here soon, he’ll now what to do;_ and thinking, _I gotta go, I gotta go, Daddy, I need you..._

But no part of him felt like Quentin Coldwater, age 24, completely capable of standing up and taking a piss if he needed one, and so he stayed where he was, on the swivel chair, biting his lip, his heart fluttering, anxious. 

He chewed his thumbnail, and then slid the first two joints of his first finger into his mouth, which wasn’t as good as sucking Daddy’s fingers or Daddy’s cock, but he felt himself calming down a little bit, and he trusted Daddy, he knew Daddy would come and take care of him before anything bad happened. He ran his long hair between his fingers and breathed slow through his nose, and listened to the distant sound of Daddy’s conversation, and began to feel safer, because even if Daddy wasn’t _right here_ , he was _close –_

And that was when everything went wrong. He took his hand away from his groin, and relaxed into the chair, and sucked on his finger, and then he felt – he felt the urgent pulse again, and then the tension in his abdomen relaxed, and for a second everything was better –

And then he was peeing. He was going _right here:_ wetting right through his pants and onto the swivel chair – 

He gasped, trying to stop it, trying to hold everything back but – 

His body had no intention of listening to him – 

The pee spilt out of him, impossibly warm, and he could hear – he could hear the terrible, shameful, drip-drip-drip of the puddle trickling from the chair and onto the floor. He was in a hot, sticky pool, and it was his own fault, he was – 

The relief was terrible, shameful; the wonderful relaxation in his groin, the tension melting away. He felt so small, so helpless – 

He was crying, too, snuffling into his hands, and he was – What was _wrong_ with him? How had he let this happen? And Eliot was going to see, Daddy was going to see what a – what bad boy he was and he was going to be in – so much trouble – 

He heard footsteps – the door, oh _no_ , Eliot was coming in, was coming in right now, and all Quentin could do was close his eyes, and hide his face in his hand, like, somehow, that was going to stop Eliot from seeing him. 

“Q –” He heard Eliot’s indrawn breath. His back stiffened; he whimpered. 

Then Eliot was beside him, and Eliot’s arms were around him, holding him tight, and El was saying, “Oh, baby, I’m sorry, I forgot, I’m so sorry.” 

“Daddy, I –” Quentin’s voice broke. “Daddy, I’m sorry.” 

Eliot knelt beside him, so tall he was almost on level with Quentin’s face. He pressed his forehead against Quentin’s. “You don’t have to be sorry, baby boy. You don’t. You had an accident because I – I forgot to bring you to the bathroom.” 

“But I’m –” Quentin swallowed, thick and wet. “I’m an adult, I shouldn’t – shouldn’t depend on _my boyfriend_ to tell me when I need to take a fucking piss...” 

Eliot touched his cheek, thumbed away the fresh tears. “We made the rules together, sweetheart. We agreed I’d be in charge of when you need to go potty. This isn’t any different from any of the other rules. I’m – I’m so sorry I forget.” 

“B-but I’m gross...” 

“You’re not.” Eliot cupped Quentin’s cheek with his hand. “You just had an accident. It’s OK if little boys have accidents sometimes. And it was my fault. It was Daddy’s fault.” 

Quentin snuffled, feeling snot on his upper lip, tears on his cheek. He was gross, no matter what Eliot said. “I...” He couldn’t make the words come. Maybe later, when they were sitting together at the table, and he felt more like a person he could explain how he felt _so small,_ how it was _so much_. “I...” He swallowed. “It’s hard being a big boy. I was trying, and I couldn’t....” 

“I know,” Eliot said, infinitely gentle. “I know, baby.” His hands, warm on Quentin’s face. His breath, soft on Quentin’s cheek. “I’m going to draw you a bath, and I’ll do that stretchy spell so we can both get in the tub, and I’ll get you all warm and clean, and you’ll feel better, won’t you, sweetie?” 

“Maybe.” Quentin wasn’t sure anything would make him feel better. He swallowed. “I can clean up in here.” 

“Don’t even think about it,” Eliot said. “That’s my job.” 

He took Quentin’s hand, helping him up. Quentin felt the squelch of the chair as it released him. His pants stuck to his skin. Little rivulets ran down his legs as he stood, into his socks, into the wider puddle on the floor. He felt another sob in his throat. 

But Eliot was guiding him away from the puddle. “Are you all done? You’re not still holding on to any pee, are you, baby? Because that’s bad for you.” 

Quentin shook his head, his cheeks red. Cheeks impossibly red forever. “No, I think it all came out.” 

“I’m going to ask if you need the potty a lot today, sweet boy, because if you’ve held for too long sometimes it makes your bladder irritable for a little while. If you get an infection because I wasn’t paying enough attention, I’m going to feel so guilty, you have no idea.” 

As he spoke, Eliot was guiding him into the bathroom. Eliot’s voice was soothing, gentle, a little anxious. Like he was shocked too. Like he hadn’t expected Quentin to be in this deep. But, fuck, his voice was always an anchor. It helped. Quentin gripped his hand. 

“I’ll... I’ll tell you as soon as I need to go,” Quentin said. “I need to get out of these pants. Can we, can we, like, burn them, because they’re so soggy?” 

“We can burn them because they’re too big for you, and your ass could look a lot better,” Eliot said. “But a little pee isn’t a reason to burn anything, it washes out.” 

Eliot undid the pants, helped Quentin to step out of them. His hands worked fast over the bath, spelling the water to fill quickly, and adding the usual tut that made the bath big enough to fit the two of them. Quentin stood on the cold tiles, still sniffling. Eliot helped him out of his shirt, brought a handful of toilet paper to his nose and instructed him to blow. 

“Good boy,” Eliot said, cleaning the tears off Quentin’s face. 

“Daddy...” Quentin leant towards him, felt Eliot’s arms come up around him. “Daddy.” 

Eliot rocked him, leaning his chin on Quentin’s forehead. “That bath’s done,” he said at last. 

The water was just the right temperature, scented with chamomile, the steam immediately beading in Quentin’s hair. Quentin crouched for a moment, the heat almost overwhelming him, before sliding in.

The bathwater removed the horrible sticky sensation in his groin, but Quentin still grabbed the washcloth, scrubbed his crotch and thighs. 

“Be gentle with yourself,” Eliot said, putting his hand over Quentin’s. He slid in behind him, the bath accommodating his long legs without seeming to expand at all. Quentin looked at him: the soft curls, the hair on his chest and legs, the line of his nose, and felt a flutter of love and desire. 

“I’m such a mess,” Quentin mumbled into his own knees. 

“ _My_ mess,” Eliot responded, almost automatically. “Come here.” 

Quentin turned awkwardly so he could lean back against Eliot’s chest. Then: it was better. Eliot’s silky skin against Quentin’s own. He wanted to get closer, closer; he could never be close enough. 

“Will it help if I tell you about the time I got drunk and pissed myself when I was in college?” Eliot said against Quentin’s neck. 

“No, it’s not the same.” Quentin shut his eyes, leaning into the warmth. “It would have been different if I’d been drunk. I was... In control of all my faculties.” 

“No you weren’t. I was. That’s the point.” Eliot ran his fingers over Quentin’s chest. “You think the rules were suspended just because I was talking to Bambi?” 

Quentin let himself relax into the touch. It was easy: to lean into Daddy, to let him be in charge. Quentin felt some of the shame recede, because Eliot was touching him, because Eliot was here. 

He felt Eliot’s cock, hardening, against the curve of his ass. He moved slightly, so it pressed against the crack of his ass, and wriggled backwards, the dimensions of the cock so firm and familiar. Elliot made a soft sound of pleasure. One of his hands moved up to Quentin’s throat, fingers light as feathers as they settled against Quentin’s skin. Not pushing, not tightening, just – holding him. 

Quentin felt himself relax further, his muscles melting against Eliot’s body. His cock grew hot; he felt it swell. 

“Such a good boy,” Eliot murmured against his neck. “Oh, Quentin. You’re so good, following Daddy’s rules. So good, rutting against me. Such a beautiful boy.” 

Quentin tilted his head, wanting to hide his face. “No, stop, too much praise,” he murmured, because praise always made him feel unmoored, uncertain. 

“You’ll just have to take it,” Eliot replied, a little laugh in his voice, and Quentin, wanting to distract him, pressed against his cock, and slid his ass up and down, slow, an easy rhythm. 

Eliot’s hands tightened at his throat: just a little, just enough that Quentin could feel them. 

“Can I make myself come?” Quentin asked. 

“Good asking,” Eliot replied. “Of course you can,” and his other hand slid down, and cupped Quentin’s groin. 

And then he didn’t move, just lay there, warm and languid, holding Quentin’s neck, palm against Quentin’s cock, and Quentin – 

Lay there against him, feeling the contours of Daddy’s body, the warm water, the smell of sea-herbs, of chamomile. Felt contained, safe, like he could lie here forever – 

And slowly his body began to move, as if, like when he’d wet himself, he wasn’t in control any more. Like his body had decided what it needed, and was just – responding. Without his permission. He pressed his throat into the touch of Eliot’s fingers, the slow sigh of his breath echoing against Eliot’s thumb, and he slid his dick into Eliot’s hand, and felt Eliot’s fingers tighten around it just a tiny bit, so he could fuck himself in Eliot’s fist. The rhythm was comfortable, soothing, as he rocked against Eliot’s body. Eliot’s dick was a firm line against his ass, the pressure of it comforting, and his eyes fluttered open and shut, open and shut, as the bath rippled gently around him. 

Time seemed suspended, honey-like, as though they were casting a spell. He turned his head, pressing his face into Eliot’s neck, and Eliot’s hand on his throat loosened. 

“Daddy,” he whispered, “Fingers, please,” and Eliot understood immediately, and slid two fingers into Quentin’s mouth, and Quentin sucked so hard they pressed against the back of his throat, and it was – so good, so complete, to feel Eliot in him like that. 

He sucked and sucked, and Eliot whispered into his hair, “My – baby, my _baby_ ,” and Quentin shivered and came in the bathwater. 

Time still felt slow, as he lay there. At last, Eliot slid his fingers from Quentin’s mouth, tutted the bathwater warm again, and cleaned Quentin, careful and deliberate, with a cloth. 

“You didn’t come,” Quentin said, fighting the drowsiness weighing all his limbs. 

“Because I promised you could suck my cock,” Eliot said. “Didn’t I, darling?” 

Quentin found himself making a sound like a sigh and a purr, and Eliot laughed. 

“I can’t – think,” Quentin said. “I feel so good.” 

“I know.” Eliot looked down at him, gentle, satisfied. “That’s why I’m taking care of you.”


End file.
